The trio left in high spirits an hour or so before midnight. At this moment, barring unforseen problems, they should be in the final stretch. Barreling down 87 somewhere south of Albany. With early dawn revealing the Catskills, and the windows on the driver’s side of the Greyhound giving fragmentary views out onto the broad sweep of the Hudson River. I’ve done that overnighter many times in the past. And it was always accompanied by an exhilarating sense of adventure. Even on business trips, the treasures of Manhattan were there for the taking. Now it’s the grandchildren’s turn. Kyle is an old hand at dealing with this powerful magnet. Seven years ago when she was just 15 she went with Pat and I for her first visit. On arrival we sat in one of those dark oak-trimmed bars in a quiet corner, she sipping on a pina colada. Only grandparents can get away with things like that.
Her mother was like that too. When she was barely 16 she headed West alone, through the winter landscape of the Great Canadian Shield. Then on the Prairies her train was snowed-in for 48 hours. Finally she made it through the Rockies and the other ranges to do a stint in the Pacific on an inshore fishing boat.
Then Kyle’s cousin Megan got the bug. Meg is 16 now so she can cross borders without written parental permission. She’s a bold adventurer too, excited by the scent of new discoveries and pleased to revisit old haunts. I don’t think anything will hold her back.
The initiate on this trip is Kyle’s thirteen year old brother, Dylan. My guess is that he’ll find the East Village and the Guggenheim even more fascinating than video games. After five nights in a youth hostel he’ll be prepared to take on the world too.
There’s a slight personal nostalgia in all this. A flashback to 56 years ago when I first crossed the country. Under steam. The dream lives on. Borders are there to be crossed.
